


Autumn’s Advancing

by Hannah



Series: Autumn's Advancing [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, F/M, Old Age, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-18 07:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah/pseuds/Hannah
Summary: There are things Buffy never imagined would happen to her. Life has a way of catching up.





	1. Carry Every Sadness

The sheets clung to her like a damp swimsuit. If she moved, they slid with her, heavy and wet and nauseating; if she stayed still, not moving so much as a toe, it was just disgusting. She stared up at the bedroom ceiling and the shadows there, willing morning to come faster. Maybe if she didn’t move and let time pass, things would dry off a little bit, harden up and she could peel the sheets off like she was hatching out of a cocoon. She was wet _everywhere_ , top of her head down to her feet, and especially in – 

“God,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. She pulled a sweaty arm out from under the covers to throw it over her face. That special wetness, all slick down between her legs. Something that always came as a little surprise no matter how long she waited or how close she counted the days. Except she hadn’t had her period in too many days to count, and that meant this was worse, and there was no way she was getting back to so much as a doze. “Fuck.”

“Buffy.” His hand was on her shoulder, cool and dry, firm pressure gently shaking her to full wakefulness. She slid her arm down and turned her head to look at Spike, sitting up and watching her. “Come on. Let’s get you in the shower.”

“Please.” Please what, she wasn’t sure. “Give me a minute.” A minute to lie here in bed and really take in the full reality of the situation.

“Nothing doing. Gotta strip the bed and I can’t do that with you in it. Up. Shower. I’ll carry you if need be.”

“You don’t need to do that.” Breathe in, one two three, breathe out, one two three, breathe in, breathe out, kick the damn sheets off. “Just…okay.”

“All right, that’s a start.” She glared at him as he watched her with a vampire’s infinite capacity for patience and his own boundless concern, and she pushed herself up on her elbows. Slowly, laboriously, she swung her feet over the side of the bed to make contact with the cold wood floor. Upright, it was just her pajamas clinging to her. Upright and fully awake at an hour she never liked seeing no matter what side she approached it from. Staying up this late was never a picnic. Getting up this early was downright ungodly. “You want a hand getting out of those wet clothes?”

“This isn’t the time.” She sighed, rolling her eyes, not giving him the dignity of the response he’d been aiming for. The chuckle he gave told her that keeping Spike from that sort of thing was always and forever a losing battle. But sometimes it was just him trying to enjoy himself, and she wasn’t going to deny him that. She unbuttoned her pajama top, sweat stains all over it, and stepped out of her pajama pants, peeling them off her legs. Undies came last, and if they smelled bad to her, she didn’t want to know what they were like for him. He took them without complaint, bundling them up with the ruined sheets as she walked to the adjoining bathroom and flicked on the lights. She threw up a hand over her eyes, slowly lowering it as her pupils adjusted. 

Spike was right there with her, equally nude. He took her elbow, guiding her along and moving to join her in the shower.

“I just need a quick rinse,” Buffy said. She didn’t need him with her right now. “I’ve got this.” She put a hand to his chest, fingers out, palm flat, and he took it for what it meant.

“Sure.” He still turned on the water and adjusted it to a comfortably tepid level of warmth before leaving her alone. Buffy leaned her head back under the spray, then reached for the pear blossom shower gel. Even a quick rinse could smell nice.

Once she was done, all toweled off and in a bathrobe, she took a moment to stare at the bed, stripped of its sheets. She leaned over, bending at the waist, and sniffed – and it wasn’t as bad as she thought it might’ve been, more of a low-grade clean stink that’d been scrubbed and faded, if such a thing was possible. Not as pungent as she’d feared from how bad it’d felt. Something that’d been forced clean. Another sniff took her right back to Sunnydale on any of a hundred different nights; her nose in Spike’s hair, touched-up at the roots, hydrogen peroxide stiffening the curls that were always so soft right at the scalp. Scratching her fingernails and sliding her fingertips through that tiny sliver of soft hair, pulling gentle noises out of him that he swore up and down wasn’t purring, though she knew better.

She glanced at the clock again. It still wasn’t a good hour to be awake, but at this point, she might as well start the day.

Spike was dressed and in the kitchen, already getting on with the day, and he was – oh, _that_ smell, that beautiful everyday luxury, earthy berry joy – using the little French press they saved for when guests came over. He gracefully poured her a small cup of smooth bitter coffee barely kissed with milk that got him a great big kiss in exchange.

“Just thought, you could use a little treat this morning. After all that mess.”

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping her hands around the mug and taking in the aroma.

“I’ve got the laundry going, so we can re-sheet the bed whenever you like. No need to call Izzy in for just one load.”

“Maybe later. We don’t need to do it right away.”

“Any time before bedtime.”

Buffy nursed her coffee while Spike made them breakfast. Oatmeal studded with fruit and spices for her, haema for him. His own little countertop machine made a series of soft gurgling noises after he slid in the protein packet and pressed the buttons, just like the Mr. Coffees of old. All hail Sharper Image. Maybe Mr. Coffee never spat out a mug’s worth of specially lab-crafted spun-and-processed stuff of what life was made of, though she’d known a few people who would’ve argued that blood and coffee were of equal importance.

As he sat down to join her, he asked, “You didn’t have anything special planned for today, did you?”

“No, not really.” Spike knew her schedule better than she did. Buffy gave him the courtesy of an honest answer. “Just pushing through and seeing if I can finish that one chapter that’s been bugging me. Maybe after another cup of coffee.”

“Right, right.” He sipped his blood. “I’ll call in tonight’s class if you want me here.”

“I –” She really didn’t. She wanted to scrub off everything and maybe shave her head while she was at it and she didn’t want Spike around until she was more certain of herself. “I know how much you look forward to it. You go and have fun.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. Can’t leave those poor students without their best model.” That hit just right; he smiled, looking away for a moment, then back with lighter eyes.

“Listen, soon as her office opens today, I’ll call Dr. Hanrahan. See if she’s got an opening for you in the next couple days.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“No, I do. This sort of thing’s exactly what’s worth worrying over.” He picked up his mug and didn’t make a move to drink. “Better to see her now, yeah? Make sure you’re all right.”

“I am, though. I’m fine. You don’t need to make a fuss over nothing.”

“I’d hardly say night sweats and pissing the bed is nothing.”

“Except it is.” It really wasn’t. “I’ve asked people, and I’ve read about it, and they’re not unusual thing to have happen to someone my age. I’m seeing her in a few weeks anyway. I don’t need to worry about it.” She took another bite, trying to force nonchalance.

“Yeah, but if you’ve never had it happen to you _before_ , then –”

“I’m asking you nicely, please don’t call her.” She pushed her empty bowl away. “You know, as long as I’m up right now, I might as well get some exercise in.”

“Buffy, look –”

“No, no. I’ll get something out of having gotten up so early. Get a jump on the day.” Before Spike could voice additional protest, Buffy was on her way like nothing was wrong, like nothing had woken her up hours ahead of usual. As though it was an ordinary day with breakfast, brushing her teeth, and heading to their home gym in her comfiest workout pants. Spike followed right behind, and she did what she could to ignore his blank frustration by pushing them both through the morning’s workout routine.

Today was an hour-long circuit of weight training – legs, arms, core, a few full-body moves. There wouldn’t be any trying for current one-rep maxes today, just good old-fashioned picking up heavy things, putting them down, and repeating ten or twenty times as needed. Sometimes throwing the weights over her head or playing catch, but the basic principle of moving the heavy thing remained the same no matter what she was doing. Spike spotted her on some of the presses, helped her unrack the squat cage, checked her form on the clean-and-jerk, and made sure she had fun with the medicine ball sit-up throws. She dutifully wrote everything down, sets by reps by weight. Maybe she couldn’t bench-press a pickup truck anymore, but she could still about handle a sports car. More to the point, she could focus in on something that didn’t involve the outside world. Just the dozens or hundreds of pounds she was trying to move. It was downright meditative. Nothing mattered at all except for what she was doing, right then and there. Seeing what she was capable of without assigning anything to it. Just finding out what she could do.

Yoga and old-school battle-and-defense training came three times a week, and every morning got capped off with thirty minutes of cardio. If the evenings were nice, she and Spike sparred in the backyard whenever they had the chance. This was her body as she lived in it, doing what she told it to do as best as it still could. The day she couldn’t roundhouse kick an apple off a training dummy’s head was the day she’d finally hand in her Slayer membership card.

By the time she’d stepped off the treadmill and was doing her cool-down stretches, it was close to when she’d have normally woken up. It was finally a civilized hour for greeting the world and a decent time for starting the day, now that sunlight had started to grace the world. Another quick rinse in the shower was usually what came next, except today it wouldn’t be worth it to bother. Not just yet. No reason for more showers than the local water table could handle. Wouldn’t her fifth grade teacher be proud of her now.

Spike took a deliberate breath. “Now if you’re feeling better, we –”

“I’m really, honestly fine.”

“I’m not saying you’re not still fit to take on a good few Katratzin all at once,” he rolled his shoulders out, “but who’s to say what’s happening all up inside?”

“Dr. Hanrahan. When I see her for the appointment I made eight months ago. Not when I see her in a hurry because I didn’t wake up in time to use the bathroom last night.”

“Might as well go, get me off your back about this. What’s the worst that’ll come of it? Having to go to the San Fran clinic and see a proper specialist? If you’re as healthy as you say, what’s the bother?”

“The bother?” The bother was the embarrassment, the bother was her anger at her body, the bother was him not letting her deal with it herself. If he didn’t know how after all this time she’d get to it in her _own_ time, then – “Okay. You know what? Call her. Go ahead. Go right now. See when she’ll stick me in. Who knows, maybe I’ll be right that it was nothing and we’ll have both gotten mad for no reason. That sound good to you?”

She breezed on past him, through the house and out to the backyard, not bothering to glance behind at the face she knew he’d be making. The compost needed attention; he’d been saying that for days now. Might as well get to it while she was already sweaty. Might as well get even sweatier before washing everything off. The plants in and around the house were Spike’s domain, and she wouldn’t be doing any pruning, weeding, or even mowing the grass. Just taking care of a chore while getting some nice, all-natural vitamin D.

“Cheat!” Spike shouted at her before slamming the door.

She grabbed the four-pronged rake and started turning the compost over. Six turns, six more turns, really getting her back and shoulders and legs into it and jamming the rake into the bin up to the hilt before switching to fuming the old-fashioned way, through pointless pacing and growling. She clenched her teeth, her hands, her eyes shut for a minute, before she stomped through the backyard, around the bushes and shrubs of Spike’s elaborate scent-garden and native plant beds. Workout sneakers didn’t do the job of good boots made for hitting the ground hard enough to feel the impact, but they were fine to let her get some anger out by moving around outside. Kick at the mulch a little bit, too.

It wasn’t like seeing a doctor right now was a _bad_ idea. If he’d suggested it to her, just said that calling Hanrahan was a thing she could do, that’d have been wonderful. She might’ve in fact called her this very day. If he wasn’t set on making a big deal of a thing which shouldn’t be made any deal of at all. This wasn’t a thing for direct engagement. This was something to coordinate and maneuver around without having to risk foot troops in that sort of forward assault.

She found Spike in the bedroom, hand-scrubbing some baking powder into their mattress. He worked the little brush into the fabric like he needed revenge on its family for all its wrongs against him. His lean, whipcord-muscle arms stilled when she walked in, then went right back to working the powder in more gently. The way he was moving, his black t-shirt pulled itself tight across his back and shoulders, all the better to show off every motion and movement of those gorgeous arms. 

“Need a hand with that?”

“Not yet,” he grunted. “We still got that lavender oil? That stuff Dawn gave you last Christmas.” They did, way in the back of the kitchen cupboard behind the vanilla sugar and cream of tartar, and he sprinkled a few drops right over where she’d pissed and scrubbed that in too. Essential oils were usually too much for a vampire nose – they were almost too much for a human nose – but the overwhelming presence of something which wasn’t all that bad was preferable to a lingering, faded aroma nobody wanted around. “And now we leave it alone for about six hours.”

“What, no taking it to the dump and burning it?”

“Seems a bit harsh for a little accident.” Downgrading it to _little accident_ was worse than making a big deal of it. Call it for what it was, not some euphemism that’d come up in potty-training manuals. “All the guides online say it’s easy to take care of, so long as you get to it right away.”

“Good to know in case it ever happens again. Which it won’t, so – good on you for doing all that research.” She clapped him on the shoulder and threw up a grin. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Bollocks.” He batted her hand away. “If you want this easy, tell me what you need. I don’t like it when you make a game of things.” 

Sometimes it sucked being with someone who knew her so well. “Where’s the fun in easy?”

“That. That, right there, exactly what I’m trying to say, you know it, you’re trying to make light of this when you know it’s not helping _anyone.”_ He pointed, glaring, and Buffy tried to roll her eyes and play it off. “It’s not doing either of us any favors, I don’t care how embarrassed you’re feeling –”

“You think this is _embarrassing?_ Now that’s a good one.”

“Then what –”

“Don’t bother. This isn’t something you’ll get. You can’t read your way into understanding, you can’t nice-boyfriend your way through it. Just let it drop. Let me deal with it.”

“Really, now,” he said, voice low and sharp like a hunting knife.

“Really, _really_ now,” she told him.

“So long as you believe that,” he said and walked out.

“Hey!” she called, darting after him. He spun around, glaring. “Hey,” she said again. He crossed his arms, and she gave up. “Nothing.” He pushed his face into something that was almost a smile.

“You’re pretty ripe about now.” He was still going all low and sharp – exactly the sort of tone she didn’t want him using when she felt this lousy. “Ripe and fresh, all earthy and sweet. Go clean yourself up. There’ll be a suitable reward for you on the other side.”

She glared, and went off for her second rinse of the day. Usually it was just after her morning exercise session, a short burst of water to get her wet, lather herself up, and another burst to wash off the soap. Having to rinse herself off at least twice in the span of four hours didn’t speak highly of how things were going. She wasn’t thinking this wasn’t a problem. Of course it was. Which was why she was putting on a pad for the first time in decades. The paper wrapper was flimsy with age and the glue almost didn’t stick to the gusset, and she hadn’t missed that weird almost-a-diaper pressure from before she’d switched to tampons and then to cups. She stuck the box back in the cabinet, leaving the guest bathroom with one less pad than it’d held in emergency reserve the day before.

Spike was curled up in an armchair in the living room, burrowing into a book.

“Hey,” she said. He didn’t look up from the page. “I was thinking I might head downtown after lunch. See what’s happening, maybe do some shopping. Anything you wanted me to pick up for you while I’m out?”

“Nothing I can think of.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Little early for lunch.”

“I didn’t mean right this _second._ Come on. Nail polish? Some seedlings?”

“You go. Have a good time.”

He was right that it was early for lunch. Not by that much, though, considering when she’d woken up. She busied herself with some emails and replies, hacking the unread messages down by a couple dozen, accepting one speaking engagement and turning down three more, poking at the fussiest section of the chapter and deleting a pair of commas before putting one back in, checking what was happening downtown today, and then finally heading off to the kitchen to see what she could scrounge together. She didn’t bother heating up the leftover garden-bean soup. She just moved it around the bowl and ate it carefully, one bite at a time, chewing and swallowing with plenty of deliberation.

It wasn’t as though she was going on some grand and illustrious outing. It was barely a twenty-minute walk from their front door to downtown. Sometimes she’d just put on a jacket and not bother with any other preparations. Today the makeup went on out of spite. Today the jewelry came out. Today she brushed out her hair and let it all hang free. Today she was putting her game face on, her best foot forward, not pretending there wasn’t anything wrong. Just figuring out how much wrong there was to deal with, and part of that meant accepting the situation for what it was.

She didn’t bother with her hearing aids in the house. Same with her glasses. Not unless she was reading a lot of itty-bitty printing, or if there were lots of guests over and she wanted to be certain she wouldn’t miss anything. Sometimes they stayed at home, if all she was doing was running out to pick up some groceries, or if she and Spike were just heading out for a walk through a park.

The hearing aids had been easier than the glasses. She’d lived through enough sonic booms, explosions, dimensional portals, rock clubs, concerts, scream fests, firework shows, magically-induced thunderclaps, and other assorted high-decibel situations that when the time came for her to be fitted with them, it’d felt pretty much inevitable. It’d been a relief, too, to get back all the little sounds she hadn’t realized she’d lost, like birds in the trees, or someone breathing on the other side of the room.

Her eyesight was still decent, not just for a woman her age, but still decent, full stop. It was a matter of not wanting to squint and hold the book or restaurant menu right up to her face. Or have to keep adjusting her phone’s display. She didn’t need glasses to see and hit a moving human-shaped target in the heart, head, hand, or liver at ten, fifty, or a hundred paces, in full sunlight or near-darkness, and that was still a relief. It was just small words that gave her trouble. She’d thought of Giles the first time she’d put them on, and how he’d needed them for looking at more things than she did. Now, there were more days she wanted them than days she didn’t.

Spike was still in the living room, still engrossed in his book. With her hearing aids in, she could make out him turning the pages.

“You’re sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m good.”

“See you later, then.”


	2. Everything in Order

Today, what she needed was to get out of the house for a while. That, and the feeling of _going_ somewhere. Not just an aimless meandering walk through the neighborhood, and maybe out to one of the creeks if she felt like it. She needed something with purpose to it. Maybe even something with other people around. As such, downtown it was. It still took her on a bit of a meander though the neighborhood, but it wasn’t one without purpose other than eating up an afternoon.

Having goals and destinations, even small ones, allowed for achievable, measurable results. And once those goals were achieved, proportional rewards were earned.

“One white chocolate mocha, please,” Buffy told the barista. This was probably a bad idea, but she was feeling a little spiteful towards the universe. She might as well indulge that feeling in the form of sweet-bitter beverages. “Wait – wait.” Spiteful to the universe, yes, but not towards herself. “Sorry about that. Yes, one white chocolate mocha, but make it a decaf. Oh, and I’d like it for here. Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” said the barista – Rhonda, according to her nametag – as she rang up the charge, her ears flicking back and forth in what Buffy hoped was only mild annoyance. She handed over a ten and a five and dropped the remaining two singles, nickel, and dime she got as change into the tip jar. She could about imagine Xander’s reaction to the rising cost of fancy coffee drinks in small California towns, and what it meant when a white chocolate mocha was considered so ordinary as to not be fancy anymore.

“It’s still cheaper than Chicago,” the woman standing next to her said, before putting in her own order. Orders, plural: a flat white and a large cold-brew coffee, _‘with plenty of milk, like a third of it, you know what, go ahead and make it beige.’_ Buffy figured at that point, just go for a latte, but who was she to argue with another woman’s coffee order.

“Are you here on vacation?” Buffy asked.

“Sort of. Honeymoon.” She was tallish, with light brown hair and what looked like a newly minted California tan, wearing one of those recursive vintage ’30s high-low dresses in blue and green stripes. “Me and my wife figured it’s about our only chance for a good roadtrip, so why not make it Wine Country? I’m Dorothy. Nice to meet you.”

“Buffy,” she said, shaking Dorothy’s hand gently and bracing.

“Buffy!” Dorothy exclaimed. “I love it. What a classic name.”

“Thank you. I got it for my birthday.” Buffy let the tension ease out.

The other woman giggled. “I’ve got a niece named Buffy. Little spitfire of a girl, pain in the butt, but we still love her. You’ve got to love a Buffy.”

“That’s always been my experience,” she deadpanned.

Dorothy smiled again. “Come on, our drinks are up. You want to join us?”

It’d been Dorothy who wanted the cold-brew. The flat white was hand-delivered to a dark-skinned, short-haired woman, who was sitting at a table by the window in a Kinky Wizards world tour ’64 t-shirt and jeans. She shook Buffy’s hand and introduced herself as Aggie. “Short for Agatha, but nobody other than my mother calls me that.”

“Good to meet you, Aggie.” Buffy pilled a chair over. “You’re here on your honeymoon?”

“We’ve got another couple weeks left to it,” Dorothy said, sitting down next to Aggie. “Started up in Humboldt for the cheese, making our way down and through until it’s time to head home. We know we’re not going to run out of California before we go, so we’ll just have to come back.”

“If you’re here in winter, make sure you visit the hot springs out in Calistoga,” Buffy said. “They’re open all day and all night, and it never gets _freezing_ here like I’d assume it does in Chicago,” both wives nodded, “but it gets chilly enough in December that it’s nice to be in the hot water under a big night sky.”

“I’ll keep that one in mind,” Aggie said, holding her mug carefully with her fingertips. “We thought we’d just wander a bit and take our cues from what looked interesting in the guidebooks.”

“Then may I ask what brought you to Sebastopol?”

They glanced at each other. Aggie shrugged. “The ice cream. While I’m not much of a dessert person, I’m also not the sort of person who’s going back home without having eaten something from a place called Screamin’ Mimi’s.”

“An excellent reason, I’ll give you that.” Buffy smiled. Spike had made _such_ a row over the name of the place when they’d first moved here, complaining about it taking the thunder away from another completely different shop across the country that didn’t even sell ice cream, and Buffy had let him tire himself out so she could enjoy her dairy in peace.

“We’re taking today slow,” said Dorothy, tossing her head towards Aggie. “Wander through downtown a bit, have that ice cream and take a walk through a park, head over to Santa Rosa this evening and see what’s over there tomorrow.”

Dorothy taught middle-school math, seventh through ninth grade. Aggie was a Foley artist for a Chicago broadcasting company. They’d met through mutual friends, dated for almost two years, and got married a week earlier. Both of them were happy to be here, seeing someplace new together.

“So what got you out here?” Dorothy swirled the last of the coffee dregs around in her pint glass. “You live here, right?”

“I do, yes. What got me here, well.” She sighed to gather up steam, so she could tell her life story again. At least, an abbreviated version of it for this small audience who didn’t need all the grisly details. “I’d grown up in California, and when I was about twenty, twenty-two, I moved away for…work. I eventually settled down, sort of. I had a place where I kept my stuff. I was traveling a lot, and it was nice to see so much of the world – there was this one winter in Oslo that was just beautiful, and there was – there were a lot of places. A lot of people. But it was after one of those business trips when I got back to my place that I realized I wasn’t in an apartment, I was in a hotel room. And I realized I was tired of always going and coming and coming and going, all the traveling, all the places I had to be for all the people I knew, and there wasn’t a place for me to be _from_ anymore. So I thought, I’m at a point where I _can_ retire from all this traveling. I thought about where I wanted to retire to, and I thought about how much I’d missed living in California. I missed the winter rains, I missed the hills, the trees on the hills, the trees on the hills in winter when it rained. So I looked around, found this nice small town with interesting coffee shops and little boutiques, and it seemed like a good place to be from.” It was also a town she’d never heard of and somewhere Spike had never been, which spoke highly of its status as a place where they could step away from the world. She raised up the last of her mocha with a cheeky smile. “And here we are now.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“About ten years.”

“It’s a remarkably resilient little town,” Aggie said. “I always love it when a place doesn’t get swallowed up by suburbs or a big city, and it gets to stay itself.”

“Good zoning laws,” Buffy told her. “Believe me. I lived in a town without them for a while – you get all these weird developments, all these empty factories and warehouses. The whole thing’s a mess. I like it here a lot more.”

“You see that in parts of Chicago. All these little neighborhoods that might as well be their own small towns.”

“L.A. was a bit like that.”

“Did you grow up there?” Dorothy asked.

“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Buffy smiled. “Though I can say I was born there and lived there when I was a kid.”

“You haven’t gotten all that far,” Aggie marveled.

“Maybe not, but it took me a while to get here.” Both Dorothy and Aggie laughed. Maybe more than what the joke deserved, but that wasn’t the only reason they were laughing. Buffy could tell they were both happy to be here, with each other, and it was still new enough to them that the whole world could make them laugh together.

Sebastopol wasn’t anywhere close to being exciting, which had been one of its more appealing aspects. It was near enough to exciting things that most people skipped over it on their way towards those other places. If Buffy and Spike wanted excitement of their own, they could go get some, then leave it behind when they were done. Thrilling night life in about every possible meaning of the term wasn’t a major civic priority. A charming daytime atmosphere, now that it had in spades. 

Since none of them had any plans beyond ice cream and some walking, there wasn’t any reason to disperse and say goodbye right when the coffee was gone. “I mean, if you’ll have me,” Buffy said to their invitation, garnering another round of smiles and something to do for a while.

There was getting the ice cream, to start with, followed by the eating of said ice cream in the sharp California sunshine. It was still early enough in summer for every tree on every street to be bright green, the little park downtown vibrant and verdant. Dorothy lead the way, Aggie and Buffy keeping pace for a stately meander through the low-slung downtown, breezing in and out and past shops and benches and people out with their little kids and dogs, eventually making their way towards the Barlow.

“It’s good to see kids around,” Dorothy said, crunching the last of her cone. “Real good. You don’t get that enough. There’s a few spots around Chicago almost like this. Same kind of nice little stores and parks but no kids, almost no dogs, and that never says much about how people live there. You see a kid, you see a dog, you know this is a place people stay.”

As they stepped off the sidewalk and into the street, Aggie stepped forward to take Dorothy’s hand, swinging it gently in her own. “In terms of assessment traits, it’s a surprisingly resilient one. We did a piece on urban renewal a few months ago, and that was one of the metrics by which the hosts measured assorted neighborhoods, and how and when projects failed or succeeded.” 

“I’d never thought about it that way before, but yeah, I like that,” Buffy said. “Ask, are there kids? Are there dogs? And then get some sense of whether people are living there.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s foolproof. A place like this,” Dorothy gestured around with her free hand at the street mural below them, the sign hanging above them, “okay, not exactly like this but a place _like_ this that gets all the young artists and squatters and Bowery bums. There’s probably not going to be so many little kids or dogs, but there’s going to be more stuff _happening_ in a place like this than in those great big glass towers you get in cold downtowns.”

“Yes to the artists, no to the bums and squatters.”

“Nevertheless, as a general rule,” said Aggie. “We can expand the children and dogs approach to include low-income artists creating new metaphors and paradigms.”

“I can get behind that.”

There wasn’t a big art fair today, or even the outdoor farmers market. Just a lot of good old-fashioned browsing. Aggie and Dorothy made sure to take in the little directory standing just below the hanging sign, so they could purposefully ignore it and let their feet guide them. Here was the distillery, which had finally put aside its enmity with the cidery to partner for a brandy that Buffy sipped gently. The honeymoon couple bought a bottle to split later under the stars in the foothills, which was an excellent place to drink a bottle, in Buffy’s opinion. Then was the little general store, where nobody found anything they wanted to take home with them. And there was not one, but two art galleries, which were the sort of places that required snapping several pictures and reviewing them to be certain which one piece would follow them back to Chicago.

“I’m just saying, we can always use a basket. For fruit, or tomatoes, or something. Every time we pick up an apple – hey, remember our honeymoon?”

“Yes, but it’s something where we have to be deliberate about its use. Now a painting, we can step back and appreciate no matter what. The one of the olive trees would be lovely in our bedroom. We’ll see about their shipping policies to find out if it will be waiting at home for us when we get back.”

“Hang on, we haven’t even decided.”

Buffy stood back from the argument, knowing she’d argue on behalf of the painting and not wanting to get between either of them unless they called on her for a tie-breaking vote. She just looked around the gallery, taking in the glass and stone sculptures, wondering what they were – 

She spun around, taking a step to position herself between the door and the women. They’d stopped talking and were whispering, leaning in even closer to each other.

“What’s it _doing_ here?” Dorothy asked. “Is it…it’s okay that it’s out here, right?”

The hairs on Buffy’s neck didn’t go down. Some instincts never faded.

The figure in the doorway stood there, facing the three of them, then took a step forward. Aggie and Dorothy took a step back. In another time and place, Buffy would have cheered them on for taking the sensible course of action. Right now, she stood her ground and didn’t give it anything.

The figure hesitated, then resumed its approach, unrelenting.

The suit was black and sleek, unmistakable in its purpose. Dark as the night sky in between the stars, it wrapped the figure up head to foot, finger to toe, encasing and enveloping it completely. Only the direction of the faceplate gave any indication where it might be looking, and even then, the plate was so reflective that was only just a guess. There weren’t any sounds as the figure moved, no creaks or moans: the suit was too well-built for that. It called to mind old suits of armor, not for the artistry or the craftsmanship, but for what armor was intended to do, which was keep whoever was inside from getting killed.

The overall effect was that of instilling tremendous fear in the people around them, declaring full intent and purpose without having to say a word.

They might as well have jumped up and down, waving their arms and yelling, _Hi! I’m a vampire!_

Aggie and Dorothy stayed behind Buffy, the safest place for them right now. The vampire kept walking forward until it was close enough for Buffy to see herself in the daysuit’s faceplate. Then it stood there, watching them, as Buffy listened to all the Slayer warning bells and sirens going off in her head.

Then – she almost couldn’t believe it. The vampire dropped to one knee, spreading their arms out, hands held palm-up, face towards the floor. Genuflection, supplication.

 _So_ not what she’d wanted to deal with today.

“Why is it – what does it want?” Aggie whispered.

The vampire stayed down on one knee. Their hands didn’t even tremble. Totally still. The stillness of the dead.

Buffy took a step forward. That did it: the vampire gave a brief shake, barely visible, and their head dipping down a bit more and exposing the neck for an easy cut. _I’m showing you I’m good by letting myself be vulnerable for you to kill me. Please don’t kill me. I’m being good so you won’t have to kill me._

She tried to remember – Spike had said someone moved into the town’s nest a little while ago, he’d just talked about that, he’d gone to meet the new vampire when she’d moved in and what had he said, what was her name – “Rowan?” Buffy asked.

The vampire nodded furiously and kept her face down towards the floor. Her daysuit gave nothing away. She was wrapped up safe in a little piece of night, walking in sunlight like a deep-sea diver swimming along the bottom of the ocean or an astronaut floating out in empty space.

“Rowan,” Buffy said again. Not a question this time. And – what was it they all expected her to say these days, nobody’d ever asked her what she wanted to say. They all expected… “May you walk in the world with grace and in peace. May you be kind, and my kindness will be given. Now, did…did you want something?” Rowan shook her head. “Then go, with my blessing.”

Keeping her eyes down, not looking directly at Buffy or turning her back towards her, Rowan backed out of the gallery, and once she was out on the street, she ran away. Buffy watched her go, caught between wondering what would’ve been important enough for Rowan to be out during daylight hours, and steeling herself up for what she knew was only moments away.

“Oh, my God,” Dorothy said. And there it was. At least there was some relief now that she could stop waiting. “Oh my God. You’re…you really are. I didn’t…you’re Buffy Summers.”

Buffy let out a deep, slow breath. There were any number of things she could say: _bet you don’t get that much in Chicago,_ or _sorry you had to see that,_ or even _what do they think they are, people or something?_ She could use a snappy phrase to diffuse the tension of the situation or pull out the humor instead, and keep on practicing the fine art of self-defense quippage. But there wasn’t any point to that now. Better to just get this over with. She drew herself up as tall as she could manage, turned around, and put on her most polite smile. “Yes. On my better days, I am Buffy Summers.”

“Oh my God,” Dorothy said again. “It’s that – I mean, you said your name was Buffy, but I didn’t think – it’s such a common name. I knew you lived in California but I didn’t think you were _you_. I just thought you were someone _ordinary,_ someone that wasn’t…” she shook her head, eyes huge. “I’m sorry. You’ve got to get this a lot. I shouldn’t be doing it too. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Buffy told her. She did get it a lot, more than she liked, especially when it came from someone whose company she’d been enjoying _because_ they hadn’t been giving her at of it all.

Aggie was looking at her with less surprise and more marvel. She licked her lips, tried to shape her mouth, and then swallowed. “My…” She shook her head and took a step closer to speak quietly enough that Buffy was glad she’d put in her hearing aids before she’d left the house. “My aunt, she…she was a Slayer. She was the first person I ever came out to, when I was eleven. She died when I was twelve. I don’t remember what it was, what got her in the end, just that – her name was Mildred. Mildred Portillo. Did you ever…”

Buffy knew that look. She nodded slowly to make it look like she was trying to remember. “Mildred Portillo. Yes, I met her once. Very strong woman. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Those words were exactly what Aggie had wanted to hear, and the joy was all over her face and body. “Thank you, Mrs. Summers.”

“Just Miss. But please, Buffy is fine.”

“Ms. Summers. Buffy.” She tensed her shoulders and Buffy put out her hand in between them before Aggie could move in. Confusion flickered in her eyes for a moment, but she still took Buffy’s hand and shook it gently. “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble. No problem.”

Both women nodded, smiling. The joy of having met Buffy Summers superseding the everyday pleasures of hanging around with someone they’d liked talking to. Buffy let them have their moment with her, though she didn’t let them take a picture. 

“Right, of course,” Aggie said. “Your privacy. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks.” It was basic courtesy, the sort of thing that should have gone without saying, but when it came time to be Buffy Summers, some things had to be said. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Dorothy, Aggie.”

“And you, as well. It’s been an honor,” Dorothy said. Buffy could tell she meant it. That didn’t help as much as she’d hoped. She spun something out, saying she had some business, and exchanged one last set of good-byes. As she breezed out of the shop, she could barely make out the words they were saying, but it didn’t matter because she’d heard them before: the joy and the pleasure of having met her, the disbelief and the wonder at shaking hands with her, how grand and glorious a woman she was, how kind she’d been to them.

She’d heard it all before, a hundred thousand times at the very least.

And like after every other time it’d happened, she was very tired of being around other people.

Buffy took a long, slow walk home, deliberately taking a left instead of a right to head through the little wetlands preserve. The rains that kept the trails down were long gone until next fall, and the summertime dust was starting to pick up. She found a bench under one of the oak trees and sat in the shade, tote bag at her feet, looking up at the sky in between the leaves. It’d been a wet winter this year and the trees were still happy about that. The leaves shook, and she watched them without really hearing them. She reached down and slid her hand through the grass and heard it shivering as it moved just as much as she felt it brush against her skin.

The field out over the bridge and along the walkway was, by some miracle, empty. She stopped to look around at the small flat plain. The grasses, tall and dry in the sun, were all native species brought back in after a long land rehabilitation campaign. She couldn’t identify any of them by sight or even guess at the names without a guidebook, but she knew they belonged here. On a bright, sunny day like this, she had a postcard-worthy view out to the Mayacamas range, with Saint Helena rising up above the rest – its name was _human mountain_ in the language of the people who’d lived here since they’d walked over the land bridge a couple ice ages ago. Not a mountain for vampires, demons, werewolves, ghosts, or any of the rest of the strange and wonderful creatures that also made up her life. But it was their mountain now, too.

She took off her glasses because it didn’t make enough of a difference to have them on or not when they were so far off in the distance, the peaks marking the horizon. It wasn’t a flat plain out to forever.

Buffy had missed the mountains. Los Angeles had them on clear days and Sunnydale had them if you rode out to the edge of town or stood on a tall rooftop. She’d seen some grand mountains in her time, mountains that made these look like little coastal foothills. That one winter in Oslo, she’d left the city for a few days for something as near a honeymoon as she’d ever had for something that wasn’t exactly a marriage, to go ice skating at night on frozen lakes. Skating through the night so far from city lights with mountains rising up around her, cold air hitting the bottom of her lungs and catching all the sounds to hold them still, stars she’d never seen before and Spike’s skin turned living stone in the moonlight. Gliding along beneath the sky and through the forests, the peaks one more shade of dark against dark and reminding her that even as a Slayer, just how small a body she lived inside and how big the world was outside herself. Now those had been _mountains._

But she’d missed these mountains, too. She hadn’t wanted to never see them again.

So here she was, back in California.


	3. Up and Ever After

It was about an hour’s walk back home, dawdling along the trail and striding through the streets. The radio was playing in the kitchen, and she turned it off before stashing the new boxes of pads away in the guest bedroom and going to look for Spike.

The necro-tempered solarium had been the single most expensive piece of remodeling they’d had done on their house. It’d originally been intended as a flashy declaration of being out of the game while flaunting the fact that this was a thing they could afford to do, both in terms of money and time; they’d really be living in this house together from here on out. It’d been worth every cent they’d paid. As time went on and the years ticked over, it changed from being something show-off-y into a room that got used every day. Mostly by Spike, but still. Right now, he was busying himself with gently re-potting one of the orchids that’d been getting kind of droopy over the last few days.

“I was listening to that,” he said, eyes staying on the plant. “Have a good sulk while you were out?”

“Well, it got me thinking.” She looked at the hanging ferns, the flowering vines and potted trees and leaves everywhere, all around the little indoor jungle. The humidity made his hair curl up even more than usual, and she resisted the temptation to reach out and scratch a hand through it. The vamp-safe, plant-happy sunlight streaming through the window was still bright enough to catch and halo those curls, a soft earthy brown like the soil of his gardens.

“About what?”

“Do you ever think about getting a new daysuit?”

“You know what I think of those things. Can’t smell anything, hearing’s shot, no way to see what’s going on around you. You put one on and you’re begging the world to kill you on sight. Leave them to the fledglings that want to go out daywalking.”

“I just saw someone wearing one out today. And it made me think…nothing. Just, it’s nice to go places together, they’re working on developing better designs. Maybe a couple models down the line, we could head out somewhere.”

“Still not likely.” He leaned against the work table, bracing himself on his hands.

“You already called her, didn’t you.”

“Soon as you left. She can squeeze you in Friday at ten.” He sighed, not turning around, head bowed low. “If you want me there, I’ll go with you. In the bloody daysuit.”

She stepped forward and slid her arms around him. He clasped his hands around hers; he’d been in the solarium long enough to warm up a little. In a few weeks they’d be in the part of summer where he’d take long ice-cold showers before spooning up to her in bed. She’d come to love those nights. A cold Spike that could smell a hot flash coming had almost made that part of menopause bearable. “Thanks.” She nuzzled between his shoulder blades. A good, solid back for nuzzling. “But I think it’s going to be okay. I can handle a doctor’s visit myself.”

“All right.” He turned around to give her a real hug, then to tug her chin up and meet her gaze. “Maybe it’s going to be nothing or maybe –”

“Worst case scenario, she sends me to the clinic in San Francisco, and I spend a couple days under observation finding out it’s just me getting old.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Worst case scenario, we’re apart two days.”

“Something like that,” she said, and leaned up to kiss him. His lips opened softly, moving against hers gently. “When do you have to leave for class?”

“Not until six,” he told her. “Got some time. Why? You feeling it?” He pulled back, sniffing gently, eyes _gleaming_ in a way that did almost make her feel it. “Because if you are, then…”

“No! No, not like that. Just making sure you’re going tonight.”

“You sure? Because we could do it quick, real quick.”

He had that look in his eyes, his tongue up curling behind his teeth, and they could, they definitely could. They’d managed it plenty of times since moving here, sometimes with toys and sometimes with creams and sometimes just by themselves, but never in the solarium. Maybe…“Not right now.”

“All right,” he sighed. “You know, you could come sometime. They’re always wanting new models. Especially models that –”

“That are old?”

He smiled. “That they haven’t sketched a hundred times before, is what I was going to say. Since it’s you saying it first, yes. Old. They’re always going on about learning different forms, seeing how light falls on different skins and bodies. The kind you have doesn’t get a lot of people coming in.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “Probably not for very long or very seriously, but I’ll think about it.”

“You change your mind about it, I’ll let them know.”

“Okay.” She kissed him again, then stepped back from the embrace. “I think there’s something to be said for reliability. The students change, and the subject stays the same. You know, like math class.”

“A reliable topic year in, year out,” Spike joked along with her, and she felt lighter than she had all day. “Plus there’s that you can show up for the midday classes, which remain out of the question for yours truly.”

When he’d started modeling for life-drawing classes a little after they’d moved here, it’d begun as a joke and a challenge. The challenge being if the school was willing to put a vampire in a small room with a bunch of young humans for hours at a time, the joke if a technically dead body counted as a life model. It didn’t take long for the modeling to become something he genuinely looked forward to. Two to five times a week, depending on the semester, he got into his sunproofed, blacked-out Olds 88 and made the half-hour drive down to Sonoma State, where he’d carefully walk into a drawing studio, strip naked, and stand motionless in front of art students trying to get a sense of how human-shaped bodies fit together in space. Okay, he wasn’t entirely motionless: she’d gone to sit in on one of his sessions once, and he’d blinked sometimes. He’d changed poses when the teacher said to. But otherwise, he was just _there_. The solid-state body.

And they both knew, Spike more than Buffy, that if the students’ first real, known experience with vampires was benign, even tame, then maybe when they saw one out in the wild, there’d be a little hesitation. A moment of wondering if mass extinction was worth another attempt after all the trouble with the first failed go-round. Little moments lead into bigger ones, and maybe even to full thoughts and benevolent attitudes. Or just the acceptance that vampires weren’t all bad, not every single one of them. Just like any other wild animal.

Which they were, now. Legally, at least. Wildlife being a step up from where vampires had been barely twenty years ago.

Tonight, Spike was more concerned about not being late for class than any set of political ideologies. He had another cup of haema and told her not to wait up for him if she felt tired as he dashed out, barely giving her time to say she wouldn’t make any promises.

Buffy didn’t mind being on her own for dinner. Not just because eating outside in the early evening, right as the day was beginning to cool off, was always a treat. It was that it meant she had plenty of time for a few private chores without worrying about getting caught. Not that she minded if Spike knew some of the things she was doing now. She just felt a lot better being alone in the house when she did them. Like investigating the urine-safe underwear. Investigation was _not_ an admission of a chronic health problem. It was an honest acceptance that there might well be such incidents in the future and she ought to be careful, and part of that care meant knowing what options were around for her.

She went ahead and ordered the six-pack of mixed briefs with three-day shipping. Best case scenario, she’d be prepared for what Hanrahan had to say to her. Worst case scenario, she’d impulse-bought some new, cheery flower-print underwear. Which could easily be forgiven under all sorts of vast and varied circumstances. 

Then, she went to the kitchen for a cup of green tea before starting on what she’d meant to do since that morning.

It wasn’t that writing was _hard_. Mostly tricky. Also kind of time-consuming. And never something she’d ever thought she’d be doing. Except she’d volunteered for it, so here she was, clicking through the chapter on Hellmouths to make sure everything was as honest as possible. She highlighted and annotated the segments about the Sunnydale one, giving most of her attention to the passages about the town’s civilian life in the day-to-day before it’d turned into Sunnydale Bay.

This sort of writing was what Watchers usually did. Also historians and interviewers, and sometimes PhD students. Not the Slayers. She was glad they were finally taking their history into their own hands. She was also hopeful someone else in the League would come up with a better title than _Our Slayers, Ourselves_ by the time the book went to press.

Chapter work done, she switched over to herbal tea, taking a break to step outside and breathe in the steam of the lemon verbena. The sun was starting to get close to setting, and she took a moment to wiggle her toes on the grass before heading back to the computer. What she was going to do next wasn’t something she wanted Spike to suspect her of doing. She knew he needed his privacy about certain things, vampire things, and she couldn’t blame him for that. It wasn’t snooping if she could find these things out herself. It wasn’t like she was reading his emails or nosing through his notebooks. It was just her finding out what he was trying to keep secret, and doing the research herself.

It was a flimsy set of reasons and she knew it. She also knew there were things she wouldn’t understand about him for the simple reason that she wasn’t a vampire, and usually, they were okay with that.

He had a newsfeed set up for credible sightings. That was the term that got used for these sorts of things: _credible sightings_. There was a new item on the newsfeed that’d popped up two days ago when a drone had caught halfway decent footage of a vampire in the Zone of Alienation near sunrise. The video was of a tall, pale woman with long dark hair. While the BBC Online piece didn’t speculate about the woman’s identity in its discussion of vampiric living habits as shadowy reflections of their lost humanity and how many such vampires had taken up residence in abandoned cities all over the world. To them, it was just some vampire footage. The thing was, if Buffy cross-referenced the video with reports of missing tourists and some of the message board pictures of the interiors of some of the cottages with freshly made beds and carefully arranged dolls in little tableaus, that painted a pretty complete picture. But only if someone had a good reason to look at everything at the same time. Like Spike did. Which Buffy was doing now, too, which was a lot easier after all his hard work.

For a while, the sightings had come out of Poland’s giant old forest. Witnesses kept reporting a beautiful, pale woman running and dancing through the trees, singing and laughing. All of them said she’d seemed wild and insane. They hadn’t been sure if she was some sort of elf or beautiful troll spirit, or an entire other kind of being. Those Poland sightings had stopped a couple of years before the Chernobyl reports, which had been going on for a while now. They were still mostly vague rumor and hearsay, with this new drone footage the best evidence of her existence in decades.

Buffy knew Spike would know if anything happened to her. That was a vampire thing, like how babies would grasp anything that got put into their hands. Might as well call it instinct. Buffy knew he’d know, and she knew he wanted to see if his sire was doing all right. She knew if his sire needed him, he’d go. And Buffy would go along with him, because that was a Buffy thing.

Buffy played the footage again, watching it closely, looking for some sign of how she was doing. Maybe there would be a clue from the long dress she wore, or the way she held herself as she walked through the old, empty streets that made her certain she was looking at someone who’d gotten her feet underneath her. As good as the footage was, it didn’t have a solid shot of the vampire’s face.

She hoped Drusilla was happy.

Buffy took a deep breath, then closed the window and logged into the chat network. Not as herself, though; she didn’t want the baggage of that right now. She remembered Willow explaining online aliases and identities, and why she wasn’t always exactly herself online. Because sometimes it was easier to pretend to be someone else. And if you weren’t trying to do stuff like hurt anyone, get them to give you money, or meet you somewhere for something, you could put on a little mask to talk a bit more honestly. That way, you wouldn’t have to say _I have this friend who’s got a problem_ and instead could go ahead with _I have this problem._ It was fine. Totally fine. 

So Buffy logged into her Anne-Gordon-Potential-from-St.-Louis account and opened up the Slayer chatroom just to see what was happening. Not to do anything, not even to talk about having a vampire bow to her today. She poked at old threads, seeing what people were up to around the world.

When Buffy logged in as herself, she offered advice. She patted digital shoulders and held virtual hands. She joked and chatted and slipped in and out of conversations. As herself, everyone looked up to her. As Anne, she could step back from that, just for a little bit, and still talk about Slayer-type things she wanted to share. She could even tell people off without making them feel like the Wrath of Buffy was descending upon them. While there were times the situation warranted it, like the typical resurgence of someone bringing up chipping vampires and demons again, usually all someone needed was a polite remark about maybe considering an alternative course of action or trying to think about why someone held a different point of view.

Usually.

Closing the tab before she could comment, she went to take a shower and finally be done with the day. A nice, cool shower, with the rose jam shower gel this time, because true adult luxury was a minimum of eight different kinds of body wash. It was also the fluffiest towels she could find, and fancy cucumber toothpaste imported from France.

As she patted her hair dry, taking care with the ends, she twirled a loose bit by her ear tight around her finger. When she’d been a kid, she didn’t understand why old ladies cut their hair so short; now that she was one, she knew if she didn’t have Spike around to help her out with it, she would’ve gone full Furiosa years ago just to avoid one more hassle in her life. Instead, she had it longer than she’d ever worn it – all the way down to her waist and slowly getting longer every day. Spike would’ve liked it no matter how short it was, but the way he brushed it out gently, braiding it up in elaborate styles like double inside-out French ropes and running his hands all over her head and neck while he did, whispering in her ear that it was the color of moonlight on snow, made her avoid getting anything more than a health trim at the hairdresser’s.

She’d left her hearing aids off because she didn’t need them to know when Spike got back. It wasn’t the usual vampire-alert buzz she got; Spike came with more of a gentle hum, an ASMR tingle that left her feeling good instead of wary. She figured it was because she knew him so well, there was a bone-deep certainty he wasn’t going to hurt her, and he wasn’t a cause for alarm. “Didn’t have to wait up for me,” Spike said, standing at the bedroom door.

“I know,” she said, putting her glasses and book aside to get out of bed. “But I thought, it’s Tuesday, and I wouldn’t mind a little help.”

It was a chore she could do herself, and it was something she knew Spike loved doing. Which was why she currently had one leg dangling off the toilet and the other thrown over his shoulder while he applied the topical estrogen cream to her vagina. There were pills and patches she could use for this, except Spike couldn’t help her with those like he could with the cream. She leaned her head back and took in the sensations of his strong, cool fingers inside her – not a novelty anymore, but still a little thrilling, a lot enjoyable. The same kind of enjoyable as a good neck rub. He put in effort, like always, to make it nice for her, scissoring and twisting and giving her some extra sensation to the rubbing and the in-and-out. She appreciated it some days more than others. No matter what the day, Spike was just happy to be between her legs. Even the way she was now, it was a place he liked to be.

Someday this would be lost to her, too. When that happened, Spike would still be there with her. It was a guarantee like the tides of the ocean.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?” He paused his fingers mid-curl and looked up at her.

She met his eyes, and for a moment, all the words she had to say lodged up tight at the roof of her mouth. Because he was looking at _her_ , not at Buffy the Vampire Slayer, not at someone who’d changed the world and whose name everyone knew, but at her. He’d always seen her as exactly who she was, and she knew who she was to him. Which was just herself. Five Slayers had died at his hands, and she wouldn’t be with him if she couldn’t accept everything about what he was. The same way he knew everything about who she was.

Buffy put a hand on his shoulder. She took a deep breath.

“If I find myself in whatever afterlife I make it to this time and learn that, when I got there, you went out and self-immolated or met the sunrise or staked yourself or did something else _really_ stupid and self-important, I swear I’m going to drag myself out of my final resting place to whatever spot your soul’s getting sent to, and don’t think it’s going to be romantic with us together in eternity, because I’m not going to be angry, I’m going to be so disappointed in you.”

He grinned. “Understood.”

She smiled back at him. “Just making sure we’re clear on that.”

“Wasn’t planning to, anyway.” He pulled his fingers from her, slipping them out carefully enough she gave a little sigh at their loss. Still looking her in the eye, still kneeling between her legs, he said, “There’s not going to be a better way to honor your memory than to keep on living.”

“Right.” She pulled her pajama bottoms back on while he washed off his hands. “So how was class today?”

“One student said she wanted me as a photo model for another class project. I told her I’d think about it.” 

He showed off the poses he’d done, from the regular standing with both hands behind his back to the one-arm handstand. 

A few hours later, she woke up and dashed to the bathroom before she had another accident like the night before. The pad wasn’t even slightly damp, but she wasn’t risking the rest of the night without something.

Spike hadn’t gotten up, not this time. He didn’t stir when she got back into bed or when she reached out and gently stroked his cheek. He didn’t make a sound, not even a murmur, didn’t turn his head towards her finger or take a breath. 

He lay there cold and beautiful. His skin was so delicate. It was soft in a way she wouldn’t ever have guessed from looking at him or watching him move. It was what came from being dead. She stroked his cheek again, as lightly as she could. Her skin felt more like his than it once used to, and it didn’t look much like his anymore. His face wouldn’t get stretched and pulled out or loosed up or tightened and roughed with age. His arms wouldn’t get little spots or wispy hairs the way hers was doing more each day. There was only so much moisturizer and sunscreen could do. Her skin was showing signs of all her years on Earth. He was going to stay cold and beautiful.

For most of their history, the average lifespan of a Slayer had been twenty-two years. Some died weeks or months after being called, a rare few managed to tough it out to twenty-eight, and most ended up somewhere in the middle. There was one unverified account of a Slayer in Israel in the eleventh century who’d lived to 34, and another of a Moroccan Slayer in the sixteenth century who made it to 47, but there wasn’t any solid confirmation on either of those. The oldest Slayer officially on record was Amina Hammoud of Dearborn, Michigan, who’d been three weeks shy of her ninety-eighth birthday when Buffy had Called her up along with every other Potential left in the world. As Amina told it, she’d been in the kitchen, dicing up some onions for lentil soup, when the Calling came over her and she’d slammed her hand down and accidentally shattered the table.

Buffy got to meet her, once, on her ninety-ninth birthday. She’d been responsible for her, after all – responsible for everyone, the ultimate adult in the room. Amina didn’t live to see a hundred, although her last couple of years on the planet had been some of the best in her life, and she’d been sure to thank Buffy for making that possible. She hadn’t had the necessary training to crossbow a fleeing vampire through the heart at a hundred paces in low-light conditions, but she could still punch through a door if need be and her knees didn’t bother her anymore. She’d insisted on feeding everyone who came to see her for that birthday, corralling her daughters, granddaughters, nieces, daughters-in-law, cousins, a matriarch after Buffy’s own heart. It’d been good to talk to her. Not just to say hello and congratulate her, either.

There were things Buffy wished she’d asked Amina, a lot of concerns she’d never thought she’d need to face. Questions that in another life she’d have asked her mother. Worries she’d be bringing to Hanrahan at the end of the week.

Her body wearing out, that she could handle. Her body breaking down, not so much. Needing more sleep and not being as strong and having trouble reading small print in dim light were just what happened. But she hadn’t been prepared to deal with her body forgetting things it’d known how to do for most of her life. She was ten years younger than Amina was when she’d been Called, and these days, ninety-seven didn’t seem like such a long way away anymore.

Spike would say it beat the alternatives.

She was glad he was still here with her. She needed to thank him now for when he’d someday have to carry her to the toilet and wipe her ass because by the time she got to that point, she’d be past being able to thank him. He’d be there when that day came and the days that would come after. He’d be there for all the days remaining in her life. She still wasn’t ready for him not to be here because the only way she’d ever been able to imagine herself like this, like that, was because Spike would be with her. He would always be with her.

She got back under the covers, cuddling up next to him and closing her eyes. His arms wrapped around her and she smiled, ready to fall back asleep and start another morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [OffYourBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird) for early and steady encouragment, [Yellowb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowb/) for pastry and rubber duck debugging, [Kelasparmark](https://kelasparmak.tumblr.com/), [Niamh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh/pseuds/Niamh), and [Sandy_S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy_s/) for beta-reading and making this story that much stronger, and the many people who patiently answered my research questions.
> 
> Of note: Screamin' Mimi's, without the G, is a fancy ice cream parlor in Sebastopol. Screaming Mimi's, with a G, is a used clothing store in New York City. Also, French cucumber toothpaste [does exist](https://www.buly1803.com/en/oral-care/312-opiat-dentaire-mint-coriander-cucumber.html), though I've never tried it myself.
> 
> Finally, the chapter titles:
> 
> _Stay Young, Go Dancing - Death Cab For Cutie_  
>  _1\. Half Acre - Hem_  
>  _2\. Wind/Tree - Sons of the Never Wrong_  
>  _3\. The Easy Way - Dar Williams_


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